


We Meet Again

by TheEvangelion



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bottom Lexa, Canon Clexa, City of Light (The 100), F/F, Fingering, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Love, Oral Sex, Romance, Shameless Smut, Top Clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-02 00:31:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10933242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEvangelion/pseuds/TheEvangelion
Summary: Clarke makes love to Lexa, in what would be my fantasy canon-ending for the show. [Clexa Endgame]





	We Meet Again

“You have to go back, there you’re people. That’s why I-” she loves you with her lungs, or at least she tries. It comes with a pause, hesitation, an instinctive halt because she is the heda and loving with her lungs is too hard. But she tries.

The kiss comes and you wish death and time were one and the same so you could command this moment and make it your home until the stars turn to ash. The kiss is fleeting, and she cries, her tears are tiny little shameful things and it makes her all the more beautiful. All the more human. All the more yours.

When you take off her clothes, clambering inelegantly on top of her, a breath escapes her lips with the contraction of her ribs but she rights herself quickly, as if she only has so many of those little breathless moments to give you and she wants to save every single one and make them last for eternity. No, you decide. This mighty woman, this god among mortals, she is yours and you will take every single one of those breathless gasps and plant them like seedlings until you forever own fields of them.

“I’ve dreamed of this.” you whisper into her neck, and she loves you with her hands so much more proficiently than her lungs, they come up behind you and take the small of your back and rub the tender flesh there. “I’m going to keep you in this bed until the world forgets about you and me.” you promise, and she does that rare and pure smile.

You kiss her everywhere, upon every bit of revealed skin that is so much more exquisite and golden than your wildest dreams ever conjured. It leaves you breathless. It leaves the pit of your stomach aching like an old bruise, because how the hell did you live before this moment? How the hell did you wake up every day and trudge forward without knowing the softness of her belly or the way her hips smell inexplicably different, and more wonderful, than the rest of her?

By the time your worship reaches her calves, she spreads her thighs and the way she glistens for you like ripe summer fruit leaves you moaning into her kneecap and hanging off the edge of it like you might slip right off of her skin.

“Please,” her eyes slip over perfect breasts and stiffening dusky nipples, “Make love to me?” she begs you breathlessly with nothing but want and need for the desired.

She is hot and wet on your fingers, her muscles tighten and flex there as if, on each curl and twist of your hand, her body is running marathons and climbing mountains for you. It feels that way. Her chest becomes a cathedral, arching off of the blankets until her sobs wail out like church bells, you’re going to give her so much more to sing about because the way she loves you with those lungs is beyond anything you’ve ever felt.

You lick softly to begin with, it’s methodical and precise and each one is a selfish expression of your need to savour the taste of her — to memorise it and hold it on your tongue so you remember perfectly what joy tastes like. She whines, and that makes you smile, because you’re certain you are perhaps one of only two people ever to walk the earth who know what a whimpering heda sounds like.

You twist inside and drink her pink tender flesh, simultaneously, desperately, until it becomes a messy and perfect rhythm and her thighs slip around each of your ears in approval. Her grip is so tight, it hurts, and you love it all the more for that because making love to woman like her should come with some kind of sacrifice.

“Clarke…” her voice trails with another gasp and you look up, her eyes are closed and her fingers are lost in blankets. With legs slung over your shoulders and back, she uses that leverage to cant her hips up and give you more of herself. “I need you.” she begs and you take great pleasure in drawing your finger slowly, watching her melt each time you slip them back where they belong with languid hot kisses against her clitoris.

You want to look in her eyes when she summits this mountain, you want to watch her pupils fix and the breath leave her chest, you want to own that vulnerability and forever live in the knowledge that, even if it was only for a fleeting moment, you owned a Queen.

She gasps in despair when you kiss her clitoris for the last time, her body trying to follow your mouth as you gently suck her and pull away — and there is no doubt whatsoever that if she wanted to, she could succeed. She could sling her hips and throw you on your back and sit herself inside the hollows of your mouth and take what she wanted, and honestly, you wouldn’t mind for a second if she did. But Lexa trusts you, and perhaps, she likes being owned in this most human of fashions — and so she lets you tenderly pin her to the bed by her throat as you clamber up her body.

“You’re beautiful like this.” you grin and kiss her, watching the way she reacts to the taste of honey and sea-salt on your tongue. She moans for you. You circle her opening and rub her lips, and god, does she moan for you. “So, so beautiful.” the hot whisper almost sticks to her neck.

“Am I not always?” her eyes quirk and she whispers back in her own language after a gasp. It dawns on you, you've conquered the English right out of her.

“Of course,” the assurance comes with a wry smile in her mother-tongue, “but beneath me? Moaning for me? Crying when I do this?” you push your fingers inside until you can’t push forward anymore, and her ribcage quakes against the force of her lungs. “It makes you more human than I think anybody should ever be allowed to own you. I don’t think I could have ever done enough in the lifetime I had to deserve it.” you promise with a chuckle.

For a moment her eyes flicker with that fire, and you know she wants to argue, you know she’s going to start convincing you to go back — but you draw out and slam back inside of her as if you're searching for her windpipe.

She tightens, and she should not be allowed to feel this good on your fingers.

You do it again, harder this time. It makes her hips buck and you know she’ll be deliciously sore afterwards and that is exactly what you want to give her — an aching reminder for days between her thighs that you were there and you loved her with everything you had to love her with. You loved her with every ounce of muscle and every brush of your lips you had to spare.

“Clarke… I’m nearly there.” your mighty heda rasps away, utterly stuck in her own language.

“Ai hodnes,” you keep her there and kiss her eyelids so gently, and simultaneously, tease another finger inside until she is stretching and gasping. “Cum for me,” you breathe and curl against the quivering spot that makes her human.

And God… does she reward you for it.

“Breathe,” you chuckle and have to remind her, because beneath the long cry of her orgasm Lexa doesn’t draw a single breath; hips snapping and shaking violently with your waist trapped between the pair of them. “That’s it, breathe.” you bury yourself into her throat and kiss the skin there until you can almost taste the air rushing into her windpipe.

She collapses backwards when she’s done, a boneless mess of a woman, absolutely unfit to do anything but lie there and let you do what you must to make up for the years that she’s been gone. 

You kiss her first, both of her kneecaps, because they were the parts of her that always had to be strong and bear the weight of the world. Then her hips, because the muscles there were just the same as you remembered.

Her fingers are next, because they were the last thing you touched before she died. Then the inside of her forearm, because that was the first thing you reached out and felt after you died - and those two monuments needed to be joined together by your mouth to make this real.

“No,” she whispers and cups your cheeks when you reach her mouth, “You can’t stay here, Clarke. You have to go back to your people…”

“That’s why you love me?” you dare, drowning in the sheer hope that she'll say it.

She nods, and then smiles. “More than I’ve ever loved anything.”

“You are my people.” the whisper makes your throat ache even more. You lean down and kiss her, and the breeze of the city of light is so warm and clean on your naked back. “I owe nothing to them now.”

 

_[If you enjoy this story come follow me on Tumblr and show me some love[HERE](http://theevangelion.tumblr.com) where you can find many more!]_


End file.
